She Proved Herself in the Rain, Now He Cannot Stay Away novel · Chapter 3 of 3
Chapter 3: The Door He Is Not Allowed to Open
Passion stops Marcus's hand at the brink, fastens her clothes, and leads him to a private workroom where she refuses to grant him the permission he expects, leaving the inner door open as her final act of control.
Marcus's wrist was hot under her palm, his pulse hammering against her fingers. She held it a beat too long, letting him feel her grip, letting him understand that she was the one holding him now. Then she let go.
'Sit,' she said.
Her voice came out steady. It was the only thing about her that was.
He didn't move. The firelight carved shadows across his jaw, and his eyes were dark, unreadable, fixed on her face like he was waiting for her to break first. The rain kept falling outside, a steady drum against the shelter roof, and the air between them was thick with what they had almost done.
Passion turned away from him and fastened her jeans. Her hands were shaking. She made them still. The button slid through the hole. The zipper went up. Each small motion was a wall going back into place.
'Across the room,' she said. 'Now.'
The command landed. She watched it hit him, watched something flicker behind his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or the first edge of respect. She didn't let herself care which.
He sat.
He sat in the chair by the worktable, his wet shirt still clinging to his chest, his knees spread, his hands loose on his thighs. He looked like a man who had never been told where to sit in his own territory. A man who had spent his entire life being the one who gave the orders.
She had just told him.
And he had obeyed.
The fire popped. A log shifted and sent sparks up the chimney. Rain hammered the shelter roof, and the sound filled the space where words should have been. She could still feel his fingers on her, still feel the wet heat of her own body where he had touched her. Her thighs pressed together without her permission.
'You're angry,' he said.
'No.' She pulled her sweater down over her hips, smoothed the fabric, straightened the hem. 'I'm deciding.'
'Deciding what?'
'Whether you get to touch me again.'
Something moved across his face, too fast to name. He didn't look away from her. He never did. That was the thing about Marcus Thorne. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing, and it made you forget every reason you had to look away.
'You said you wanted me,' he said.
'I do.'
The words fell out of her before she could catch them. She didn't take them back. She wouldn't give him that.
'Then what are you deciding?'
Passion crossed to the worktable and picked up the key that lay there. It was small and brass, worn smooth from years of use. The key to the workroom, the room where the trackers repaired gear and wrote reports and kept the maps of the forest. The room that was hers as much as anyone's.
She closed her fingers around it. The metal was cold against her palm, and she held it tight, a small reminder that access was still hers to grant.
'Whether wanting you is enough,' she said.
He went very still. The way a wolf goes still before it lunges. The way a man goes still when he realizes the ground under him is not as solid as he thought.
'Enough for what?'
She didn't answer. She walked to the door at the back of the shelter, the one that led to the small private workroom. Her boots were quiet on the floorboards. She could feel him watching her, feel the weight of his attention like a hand on her spine.
She heard him rise behind her. Felt him cross the room, each step a pulse in the floorboards, each pulse a question she wasn't ready to answer.
He stopped close. Too close. The heat of him pressed against her back without touching, and her body leaned toward him before she could stop it. She caught herself. She made herself still.
'Passion.'
His voice was low, rough at the edges. It did things to her. Terrible, wonderful things that made her want to turn around and put her mouth on his and forget every reason she had to stop.
She didn't turn around.
She unlocked the door.
The lock turned with a soft click. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, into the dark, and the key stayed in her palm, pressed against her skin like a promise.
The workroom smelled of leather and gun oil and old paper. The smell of work, of purpose, of the life she had built for herself before he ever looked at her like that. She didn't turn on the light. She stood just inside the threshold, her back to him, and let the silence stretch.
'You're not going to ask me what I'm protecting,' she said.
'Would you tell me?'
'No.'
'Then why ask?'
She turned. He was standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, his body blocking the firelight. He looked like a man carved out of shadow and want. A man who had never been denied anything and didn't know what to do with the feeling.
'Because I need you to understand something,' she said. 'You don't get to command me here. You don't get to touch me because you've decided I want it. You don't get to walk into my life and take.'
'I haven't taken anything.'
'You would have.'
The words hung between them.
He didn't deny it. That was the thing about him. He never lied. Not even when the truth made him look like exactly what he was.
'I would have,' he said quietly. 'I would have taken everything you offered.'
'And more,' she said. 'You would have taken more than I offered.'
He looked at her for a long moment. The rain kept falling. The fire kept burning. The whole world had shrunk to this doorway, to the space between their bodies, to the thing she was refusing to give him.
'You think I don't know what you're doing,' he said.
'What am I doing?'
'Making me wait.' His voice was low, almost soft. 'Making me earn it.'
'Is that a problem?'
'No.' He shook his head slowly. 'It's the first time anyone has.'
Something shifted in her chest. Something dangerous. She pushed it down.
'I'm not doing this to punish you,' she said. 'I'm doing it because I have to. Because there are things you don't know. Things that matter more than this.'
'Tell me.'
'I can't.'
'Can't, or won't?'
'Both.'
He took a step forward. Just one, but it closed half the distance between them, and she felt it like a physical blow. Her breath caught. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
'Then tell me what you can,' he said. 'Tell me what you want.'
'I want you to stop asking.'
'Liar.'
The word landed soft, almost gentle, and it cut her open. Because he was right. She was lying. She wanted him to keep asking. She wanted him to keep pushing. She wanted him to cross every line she drew, and that was exactly why she had to draw them.
'Maybe,' she said. 'But you're going to respect it anyway.'
He looked at her. Really looked at her, the way he had in the clearing, the way he had when he knelt in the mud and bound her wound with his own shirt. Like he was seeing her for the first time.
'Yes,' he said. 'I am.'
Then he reached for her.
His hand came up, slow, deliberate, giving her time to step back. She didn't step back. His fingers brushed the side of her face, just below her jaw, and she felt it everywhere. Felt it in her chest, in her stomach, low and hot and spreading.
'Not here,' she said.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
She stepped back into the workroom, leaving the door open behind her. The key was still in her palm, still cold, still hers.
And she looked back at him as he reached for her again.
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